Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Sixty-Eight

Striker and Felicia left Worldwide Translation Services and climbed into the cruiser. Striker sat behind the wheel, his mind working in overdrive, searching for a connection between a group of suburban kids from a sleepy Dunbar school, the Shadow Dragon gangsters, and the Khmer Rouge war which was thirty years over and two thousand miles away.

He found none. Their best lead now was Patricia Kwan – who lay unconscious in the hospital. Doctor or no doctor, weak or strong, it did not matter. Patricia Kwan was the only chance they had of finding her missing daughter.

She would have to be woken up again.

‘Saint Paul’s,’ Striker said. ‘You drive.’

They switched places, and Felicia drove west on First Avenue. As they went, Striker logged onto the laptop, then initiated PRIME, the report programme all the municipal forces had adopted ten years earlier. Every Patrol call written was in this database, and it was one more check box on his list.

Felicia switched to the fast lane, looked over at him. ‘Any theories?’

Striker pulled out his notebook and set it down on his lap. ‘I’m running every damn name we got through the patrol database. See if we can get even a weak connection. Right now I’d be happy with anything.’

Striker got to work. He typed in the names of all four kids involved – the ones that were known targets: Conrad MacMillan, Chantelle O’Riley, Tina Chow, and the still-missing Riku Kwan. A few minutes later, he deflated.

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Jesus Christ, not a one.’

Felicia looked over. ‘What do you mean, not one?’

‘I mean they’re not even in the system as entities. Goddam zilch.’

It was frustrating. Not one of the kids had a youth record, or any criminal history in any of the information systems. Not one was even listed as a Witness or a Property Rep, or even a Person of Interest, much less a Suspect Chargeable. The closest matches Striker could find were Patricia Kwan and Archibald MacMillan – the parents of Riku and Conrad. Kwan, as they now knew, was a Vancouver cop. Her entity was automatically entered into the system upon hire date. And Archibald MacMillan was a fireman, so he was listed the same way.

Striker told this to Felicia.

‘What hall is Archie at?’ she asked.

Striker scoured through the report. ‘Hall Eleven. Got a notation here in the remarks field – says he’s specialised. HAZMAT.’ Striker looked over at Felicia. ‘They deal with chemical spills, explosive substances, meth labs, unknown terrorist devices – all that shit.’

Felicia turned south on Main. ‘I know what HAZMAT is, Striker. Christ Almighty, how junior do you think I am?’

‘Stands for Hazardous Materials.’

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You’re such a shit. Any of the other parents come up?’

He focused back on the computer screen, scanned through the electronic pages. ‘No, not that I can see. The only Chows listed are all low scores, and there isn’t even an O’Riley on file.’ He used the touch-pad to close the extra windows, bringing him back to his original request of Archibald MacMillan. ‘Interesting though. Hall Eleven is at Victoria and Second – that’s District Two.’

‘What’s interesting about that?’

‘Both Archibald MacMillan and Patricia Kwan work in District Two, yet they live in Dunbar. And both their kids go to the same school.’

Felicia shrugged as if to say, So? ‘A lot of cops and firemen live in Dunbar,’ she said. ‘It’s a good family place. Try to cross reference them.’

Striker read through their histories. There was a lot.

Patricia Kwan had written over two hundred calls the past year. Pretty standard for a patrol cop. Everything from Break & Enters to Homicides. Archibald MacMillan had been to sixty-three calls, most of which were gas leaks and car accidents.

Striker cross-referenced their names. ‘Interesting . . .’ he said.

‘What you got?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nothing astounding, but they’ve only been to one call together. Just a few months back, in fact. A house on Pandora Street, Seventeen Hundred block.’

‘That’s the industrial area,’ Felicia noted. ‘What kind of file is it?’

He clicked on the link and waited until the incident number popped up.

‘Okay, there’s actually two calls here,’ he said, ‘and they’re linked. First one came in as a Suspicious Circumstance, then later the same night, it was linked to an Arson call at the same address.’ He queried the number and got back a generic CAD call with only the address and time listed. There was nothing in the remarks field. Not even a name. Frustrated, he ran the incident number for a report and got back a three-word message.

‘Event Not Found,’ he said. Meaning it was either non-existent or locked for security reasons.

‘Any badge number associated?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nothing.’

Striker called Info, asked if they could bring up the report. But the same message came back to them as well. Irritated, he closed the CAD call.

‘I want to see that house on Pandora,’ he said.

‘It’ll have to wait,’ Felicia told him. ‘We’re here.’

Striker looked up from the laptop screen and saw the tall steel gates and old red brick of the hospital before him.

They had reached St Paul’s.

Sixty-Nine

Red Mask stood in the east wing of St Paul’s Hospital and looked through the windowed door that led into the Critical Care Unit. In there was Patricia Kwan.

His next target.

He was dressed in janitor’s clothes, which he’d taken off the old man he’d killed in the next wing. He also wore latex gloves – so he would leave no prints – and a gown overtop his clothing. With only one good arm, the baggy gown hampered him in reaching his pistol, but the uniform was necessary to enter the CCU. So he left the back straps loose.

It was the best he could do.

On the other side of the doorway, Patricia Kwan’s room was under guard. Red Mask had expected no different. A young cop, about twenty-five years old, leaned on the doorframe. He looked bored. With the exception of the nurses and orderlies who roamed the walkways, no one else was around.

And this was to Red Mask’s benefit.

He carried the jar and duct tape in his left hand. The weight of his tools was not much, minimal really, but the stress it put on his shoulder was alarming. He closed his mind to the pain and focused on the task at hand.

In his right hand, he carried a small oxygen tank, one he’d stolen from the cancer ward. He had taken two of them, and purposely left one by the CCU entrance doors. The tanks were pressurised and heavy, about thirty pounds.

It would be more than enough.

He waited patiently for the nurse to leave, then swiped the keypad with the janitor’s access card and entered the Critical Care Unit. He looked at nothing as he made his way down the corridor, just kept his eyes straight ahead, as if he were a tired man finishing his shift. When he neared the cop, he glanced left. Saw that the man wasn’t paying attention.

It was the only opening he needed.

Mustering as much strength as his shoulder would allow, he swung the oxygen canister; the cop spotted the movement and raised his arms – but the reaction came far too late. The oxygen tank impacted with his face, smashing his head into the door and breaking his nose. He dropped to the floor, as limp as rice noodles.

Red Mask took no chances. He drove the tank into the cop’s face one more time, then opened up Patricia Kwan’s door and scanned the room. When he saw no one but the woman on the bed inside the room, confidence filled him. He placed the jar and tape down on the nearest counter, then set the oxygen tank down on the floor, just inside the doorway.

He dragged the cop inside and removed the man’s pistol. He released the mag, racked the slide, and expelled the chambered bullet. Then he threw the Sig Sauer in the garbage can and dragged the cop into the washroom. When the door closed, he and Patricia Kwan were alone again.

It was time to get to work.

He grabbed the duct tape and jar and walked up to the bed. Patricia Kwan lay still under the blankets, locked between the raised chrome bed railings. It seemed so long ago that he had last seen her. How odd it felt.

And how wonderful.

Patricia’s face was whiter than before. The skin now sagged around her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in slow intervals. Tubes ran from her wrists and forearms to three different machines. One of them reminded Red Mask of the electric current machines the guards had used to obtain confessions in Section 21. The thought manifested dark emotions, and he killed them immediately.

Emotion was weakness.

The bed was too high. Red Mask lowered it with the electronic control, then leaned over Patricia Kwan. She sensed the movement, and her face tightened. Red Mask smiled.

He could bring her back to consciousness.

First he put on two pairs of latex gloves, then tore off a strip of duct tape. He placed it across her mouth, then grabbed her wounded shoulder and gave it a vigorous squeeze.

Patricia jolted like she’d been electrocuted. Her eyes opened. They scanned the room, stopped on him, and widened. She jerked under the sheets, and one of the machines made a high-pitched, beeping sound.

‘Be still,’ Red Mask ordered. He pointed to the tape covering her lips. ‘I am removing tape. Understand –’ he held up the jar of clear fluid ‘– this is nitric acid. Nothing more painful in world. You scream, I make you swallow.’

Patricia Kwan’s eyes filled with terror. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

‘Understand?’

She nodded slowly, and Red Mask peeled back the tape.

‘Please,’ her voice was weak, scratchy, ‘I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Don’t kill me.’

Red Mask placed the jar on the bedside table, directly within Patricia’s line of sight. ‘I not lie to you, Patricia Kwan. You will die. But you can go in pain or no pain – the choice is for you.’

Her response was a whisper: ‘Please – God – why? Why are you doing this?’

Red Mask just looked at her and tried to analyse the twinge of emotion he was experiencing. Something was stirring inside of him, somewhere deep, a tickling sensation. Like a name he could not recall.

‘You show great disrespect. That will not – cannot – be tolerated.’ He gave her an odd look. ‘Do you think no one would discover?’

Patricia Kwan’s eyes took on a distant look. ‘But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m innocent!’

‘No one is innocent.’

Red Mask looked over at the clock. Already several minutes had passed. Soon the nurse would return. Seconds were valuable. He leaned forward, so that he was looking right down at her, and he suppressed the pain he felt, for there was no time for pain.

‘I ask you one more time, Patricia Kwan.’

‘Please, I—’

‘Where is daughter? Where is Riku Kwan?’

Seventy

When the phone rang, Courtney was in the shower. She heard the rings, almost didn’t bother with it, but then thought of Raine and wondered if she’d gone all the way with Que. With mango-scented soap dripping into her eyes, she slid the shower door to the side, hopped out, snagged a towel from the rack and scurried half-naked down the hall.

She snatched the phone up on the fifth ring – one before the machine picked up – and looked at the caller ID.

Quenton Wong.

She knew it was Raine and said, ‘Jesus, I’ve been calling and calling you, like, forever. Why don’t you pick up?’

‘Sorry, Court. My cell crapped out.’

‘I’ve been calling Que’s, too.’

‘Thing’s a piece of junk. He dropped it in the tub once and it’s constantly on the fritz. Sometimes it works, sometimes not.’

Raine stopped talking, and there was a moment of silence on the line. Finally, Courtney asked, ‘Well? Did you do it?’

‘He’s . . . he’s not here,’ Raine said.

‘Not there? Where are you?’

‘At Que’s friend’s pad. You remember, that one we met when we saw Avatar? The one with the bad skin?’

‘Oh yeah, Mr Creepy.’

Raine laughed at the name. ‘Yeah, well, Mr Creepy has his own place. Up here on Adanac.’

‘Is Que there?’

Raine made a sound somewhere between embarrassment and frustration. ‘No one is. And Que hasn’t come back all night. I dunno. Maybe he wasn’t really that . . . into it.’

Courtney felt the water trailing down her legs and feet, forming a small pool on the hardwood floor of the den. She didn’t care. ‘God, are you kidding me? He was, like, so all over you at the restaurant. Something must have happened.’

‘Like what?’ Raine asked.

It was something Courtney hadn’t really considered, and the thought bothered her because Que was either out with some other girl or he’d gotten into some kind of trouble and was probably in jail or something.

‘Maybe he got drunk again and was sent to the drunk tank.’

Raine’s tone turned defensive. ‘He only did that once.’

‘I’m just saying—’

‘I know, I know. Look, Court, what you doing? Wanna come down and see me? I could use the company. All I been doing is powering through Twilight. It’s good, but if I read any more, my eyes are gonna fall out. And besides, I sure as hell can’t go home right now.’

‘Why not?’

‘You kidding? After staying out all night at Que’s, I’m as good as grounded for the rest of the year. I got my Britney ticket, I got my dress. I ain’t going home again till after the Parade of Lost Souls and the concert.’ She paused, cleared her throat. ‘Hey, it’s almost two o’clock now. Parade starts in three hours – why don’t you head down now and we’ll start partying.’

Courtney thought of the two cops guarding her home. ‘About that . . .’ she began.

‘I talked to Mandy and she said Bobby was asking about you.’

‘Really?’

‘Said he was gonna be in the park before the show started, just having a few drinks and stuff, wanted us to come down.’

Courtney closed her eyes, cursed Dad. It was so unfair. He was so unfair. Mom would never have held her back like this. She thought about the two cops positioned out front and back of the house and wondered if there was some way she could give them the slip. Maybe out the side window, over the fence through the neighbour’s yard. Or even the other way through the park. There had to be a way.

‘You coming?’ Raine asked again

Courtney took down the address. ‘Be there in an hour.’ She said goodbye, hung up the phone, and stood with only the damp towel to protect her from the cold draughts of the house. Already, her body was chilled. She started back for the shower, stopped, covered herself up as best she could, and looked outside the front-room window.

No cop car was out there.

She turned around, stepped into the kitchen and stared into the back lane.

No cop car was there any more either.

‘Strange,’ she said, but counted her blessings. She hurried back for the shower and finished washing her hair. She had to get ready. There was a lot to do before the party started. A whole lot.

Raine was waiting for her

And so was Bobby Ryan.

Seventy-One

Striker and Felicia took the east wing elevator to the third floor of St Paul’s Hospital. When they reached the locked entrance to the Critical Care Unit, Striker grabbed a gown from the bin and put it on. He tied the ends behind his back and looked around for a nurse. Moments later, the same nurse he’d dealt with last time came out of the staff lounge. He called her over and requested the doctor.

She furrowed her brow. ‘He’s on break.’

‘This is a police matter.’

‘It’s the first break he’s had in nine hours.’

‘And we haven’t had one in twelve. Get him. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t crucial.’

‘I guess I could try paging him.’ She spoke the words with obvious reluctance, then walked down the hall without so much as another word.

Striker watched her go, then looked at Felicia. ‘Is she getting him, or not?’

Felicia threw up her hands. ‘This is bullshit. Wait here, I’ll find one myself.’ She marched down the south branch of the hallway, turned the corner, and disappeared from Striker’s view.

With the nurse and Felicia gone, the interconnecting area of the hall was empty, and Striker was alone. He thought of Courtney, as he’d been doing all day, and of the fight they’d had two nights ago.

The guilt, it was always the one thing he could count on.

He pulled out his BlackBerry, called home, got nothing. He tried calling her cell phone and got the machine. She was screening the calls, he knew. Avoiding him. Like she always did when she got pissed. He waited for the beep, and was about to leave a message when he peered through the windowed door into the Critical Care Unit and noticed something that bothered him.

The cop guarding Kwan’s room was gone.

Striker snapped his cell closed. He took a quick look around for a nurse, doctor, janitor – anyone with a pass card to get him through the door – but found no one. The place was as devoid of life as a mausoleum. He got on his cell, called Dispatch and asked them to radio the cop who was guarding Kwan’s room. He was put on hold for nearly two minutes, and when the dispatcher came back on the line, her voice sounded concerned.

‘He’s not responding.’

‘Get units here now. Code Three.’ Striker pocketed the phone and kicked open the door. The swipe receptacle snapped off the frame and a loud, high-pitched alarm filled the halls. Striker ignored it. He drew his Sig, ran thirty feet down the hall to Kwan’s room, and threw open the door.

In the far corner of the room, Patricia Kwan lay on the bed. Standing to her left, his back to Striker, was one of the hospital janitors. The man was cleaning the array of hospital equipment that flanked Kwan’s bed. Besides the missing cop who was supposed to be guarding the room, nothing seemed amiss.

Striker relaxed a little, let his gun fall to his side. ‘Hey, man, have you seen the doctor?’

‘On break. Come back ten minutes.’ As the janitor spoke the words, he glanced back over his shoulder, and Striker saw his eyes – those cold, dead eyes.

Red Mask.

‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ he yelled, and raised his gun.

But Red Mask had already reacted. The gunman spun around, crouched, and took cover behind Patricia Kwan. He raised his gun over her bed and began shooting.

Bullets slammed into the wall behind Striker. He dropped low, took aim – and couldn’t get a shot off, not without hitting Patricia Kwan, who still lay helpless in the hospital bed. Without cover, he was screwed. He scampered leftward across the room.

Red Mask remained hidden behind Kwan’s bed. He pulled the trigger fast, in rapid fire – four shots, five, six, seven – and all of them punched into the wall to the far right of Striker.

Three feet from their intended target.

At first, when the bullets missed him by several feet, Striker counted his lucky stars. But then a cold feeling ran through him. He’d battled Red Mask twice now, and the gunman was no novice. He had displayed exceptional gun-fighting skills back at the high school and at the Kwan residence, where he had kept Striker pinned down in the foyer with suppressing fire.

There was no way his shots would be that far off their target.

Unless Striker was not his intended target.

Striker kept low and looked in that direction. What he spotted made his heart race – someone had left an oxygen tank directly beside the door, and the bullets were landing all around it.

If the tank got hit, it would damn near obliterate him.

Striker lunged to the washroom door, reefed it open, and spotted the dead cop inside. The sight of the body slowed him for a split second, and in that moment, one of Red Mask’s bullets finally struck the oxygen tank.

The entire room shook with the boom.

One moment Striker was scrambling into the washroom; the next, a thunderous explosion filled his ears and he was sent flying forwards, arms wind-milling and body twisting, until he slammed hard into the toilet and wall. He dropped to the ground, landing half on top of the dead cop, half on the hard white floor tiles. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, and yet everything was quiet, muffled.

The gun –

Where the fuck was his gun?

He spotted the Sig behind the toilet base. Snatched it up. Gun in hand, he climbed back to his feet, stepped out of the washroom, and fell sideways onto the ground.

The room was spinning. His equilibrium was all but gone.

He raised the gun and scanned the room, but saw no sign of Red Mask. Where the oxygen tank had been sitting a giant hole had been blasted into the wall, and the entire doorframe had been blown out in the process. The door lay flat in the middle of the hall.

But where was Red Mask?

Striker struggled to get to his feet. As he did so, his head pounded and his stomach tightened. He fought off the urge to puke, stumbled to what was left of the doorway, and glanced down one end of the hall.

Halfway down, he spotted Red Mask. The gunman was running, his pale green gown flapping behind him. When he reached the end, where Striker had kicked open the CCU doors, he stopped, spun about and opened fire.

Again, his bullets were way off the mark, and when Striker looked ten feet down the hall, he saw another oxygen tank. He ducked back into the recovery room, preparing himself for another explosion, but none came.

When the sound of the bullets ceased, Striker peered back into the hall. The oxygen tank was still there, but there was no sign of Red Mask.

Striker raised his pistol and entered the hall. He moved east down the corridor, keeping close to the wall, out of the centre line of fire. When he reached the doorway and entered the cross-section of diverging halls, he ran right into Felicia. She had her gun out. At the sight of him, a look of horror covered her face.

‘Jacob, you’re bleeding!’

He reached up with his free hand, touched his brow and felt the warm stickiness of fresh blood. He pulled his hand away, saw red.

‘He’s here. In a hospital gown. Red Mask.’ Striker looked around. Felicia had come from the south, and he had followed from the west, so there were only two ways the gunman could have fled. He ordered Felicia to take the north while he searched east.

At the end of the hall, the door to the outside fire escape was ajar. Striker kicked it open and stepped outside. He looked down and found a discarded pale green gown and janitor clothing. But the rest of the staircase was empty. As was the alley below.

Red Mask was gone.

Striker reached for his cell phone to call for units to Burrard Street, then realised he’d lost it somewhere in the mayhem. No radio either. And with the time already passed and Red Mask nowhere in sight, Striker knew they had lost him.

Again.

He scanned the streets below and the buildings all around him. Across the way, on the rooftop of the next building, a tall Asian man stood looking at him. He was thin, with overly long legs and arms, and his face looked tight and angled wrong, as if his skull was too big for his skin. He stared back at Striker, offering nothing. Not a wave, not a smile, not anything.

Striker called out to him. ‘You see a guy run down these stairs?’

The man looked back, said nothing.

‘You see him?’ Striker asked again.

‘No.’

Striker stepped back inside and slammed the fire-escape door closed. Dizziness overtook him. He leaned against the wall, felt a moment away from collapsing. He fought through the weakness, returned to the hallway and spotted Felicia. She gave him the thumbs-down gesture.

‘No luck.’

‘He went that way,’ Striker said, and passed her by. She asked him something he couldn’t make out, but he ignored her and hurried back down the hallway to Patricia Kwan’s room. As he marched through the blown-apart doorway, he heard agonised sounds coming from the bed.

What he saw took his breath away.

Felicia entered the room just behind him. She saw Patricia Kwan, stopped hard and put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear Christ.’

‘Just get a fucking doctor.’

Striker ran to Patricia Kwan and reefed her out of the bed, so hard he tore the IVs from her arms. He dragged her limp body into the washroom, turned on the water and began flushing her face.

He prayed to God he wasn’t too late.